30 Kisses
by Elektra3
Summary: FakirAhiru stories written for the 30kisses community at Livejournal. Will include angst, humor, drama, romance, and everything in between.
1. Theme 24: Good night

A word of explanation before I begin: This fic, as well as the twenty-nine others I'll be posting here eventually, was written for the 30kisses community at Livejournal. (You can find a link to the community in my personal journal, which is where the "website" link in my profile leads to.) Basically, anyone who wants to try it signs up for a pairing, and then writes thirty fics about that pairing, each of which are about a different preset theme. The writer can interpret each theme any way she chooses, and write them in any order; the only requirement is that the fic has to center around the couple she signed up for, and has to include a kiss of some kind.

This fic is set at the beginning of Episode 12 (or right after Episode 11, if you prefer), when Ahiru is helping Fakir back to his room.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu isn't mine. Woe.

- - - - -

**Theme 24: Good Night**

He's lighter than she thought he'd be, though that might just be because he's trying not to lean on her. Weird. She'd never thought about using _Fakir_ and _silly_ in the same thought, but that's what he's being right now: Silly.

_Moron,_ she imagines growling at him with his own I'm-better-than-you snarl, and nearly giggles at the thought. Nearly. Still, it's good to have something to take her mind off of... things.

"What's... so funny?"

He's looking at her, but his eyes aren't focusing. That's not good. "Just something I thought of. Hey, look, we're nearly back at the dorm! I bet you'll be glad to get some sleep, right, Fakir? Fakir!"

He blinks. Slowly. Shakes his head once, twice, three times. He's still trying not to lean on her, but she can feel him wobbling. "I'm... fine. How far...?"

"Not far. Come on, we're nearly there."

He _hmm_s, and she isn't quite sure whether to be annoyed or relieved that he can still manage to make it sound as if he's also saying, "Of course I knew that. What do you think I am, an idiot like you?" Relieved, she decides. Fakir wouldn't be Fakir if he wasn't being at least a little bit of a jerk.

He's wobbling even more, but they're at the dorm now, and that means only two flights of stairs to go before she can set him down and he won't have to pretend that he can walk anymore. Getting up the stairs is tricky, since he's stumbling even more than he already was, but they soon fall into a rhythm, which somehow turns into a waltz in her head: _ONE-two-three ONE-two-three STEP-step-step STEP._

And now they're _STEP-step-step_ping down the hallway and somehow getting through his door without either of them getting banged up too badly. After that, it's only a few feet to his bed, where he manages one last glare before his eyes flutter shut and he deflates like a battered, sooty balloon.

His wounds actually aren't that bad, so it doesn't take long to bind them. Hopefully she's doing it right. She definitely knows how to tuck someone in, though, so that's next, even if (she blushes a bit) she can't change him into his nightshirt, so he'll just have to sleep in his clothes. Good thing he doesn't seem to care about what he's wearing at the moment.

It takes a little effort to get the sheets and blankets out from under where he flopped down on the bed and rearrange everything so that he's lying under the blankets instead of on top of them, but he's soon tucked in nice and snug. And now there's only one thing left to do.

He'd probably glare at her or call her names or both if he knew that she was doing this, but since he'll do that anyway, she might as well not go out of her way to avoid it. Besides, Fakir can be mean, and he can be silly about things like admitting when he needs help, but he also can be nice when he thinks no one's watching, and he wants to protect Mytho just as much as she does, which is enough to make her want him to feel better. And good night kisses make everyone feel better.

"Good night, Fakir!" she whispers, and, half-watching him to make sure he doesn't wake up, quickly pecks him on the cheek. And maybe it's just her imagination, but she thinks he almost smiles. Just a little bit.


	2. Theme 2: News, letter

This is set in Episode 19, when Uzura gives Fakir "Ahiru's" love letter. If the contents of the letter seem a bit… flowery, I'm just going by the expression on Ahiru's face at the end of the episode, when she finally reads it; judging from her expression, Pique and Lilie must have gone all out. Which made me _very_ interested to see what Fakir's reaction must have been…

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu was created by Ikuko Itoh. I'm just temporarily borrowing it in order to further embarrass… er, _explore_ the characters.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Theme 2: News; letter**

"Love love love love love love love…"

He was going to kill Uzura one of these days.

"Love love love love love love love…"

Not that she was technically, well, _alive_, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

"Love love love love love love love…"

Then again, her next incarnation might be even more annoying, so perhaps it might be best to leave her alive. Animated. Whatever.

"Love love love love love love love…"

Though if she kept drumming like that, he might change his mind.

"Love love love… Fakir!"

At least that infernal drumming had stopped. "What?"

"I found Ahiru's love-love-zura!"

"Her _what?_"

"Her love-love-zura!" She handed him… an envelope? "I found it on the ground-zura!" And marched away, drumming enthusiastically. "Love love love love love love love…"

He waited until her racket had faded into the distance before looking at the envelope again. It was bright red, and edged with a nauseating shade of pink that seemed designed to either adorn love letters or cause seizures, but what really caught his gaze were the names on the front.

"_Ahiru," _read the name in the top left corner. And then, inside the cut-out heart in the bottom right corner, "_Fakir,"_ read the other.

What the…?

Prying open the wax seal, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the letter wasn't perfumed or, even worse, written on pink paper. Now all he had to do was unfold the paper, and read it.

He really was going to read it.

Any moment now.

What if the letter wasn't even for him? It wasn't as if someone had sent it to him, after all; Uzura had only found it on the ground. For all he knew, it was supposed to have been sent to someone completely different. Maybe he should just…

_This is ridiculous._

The letter itself was short, and, for a love letter, to the point:

_My Darling Fakir,_ it began,

_I can no longer hold myself back from confessing any longer. I love you, Fakir, love you truly and deeply. My longing for you knows no bounds, and I wish only for you to be mine. O my love, say that you will be mine!_

_With Love,_

_And A Thousand Kisses,_

_Your Beloved Ahiru_

Oh, yes. He was definitely going to kill Uzura one day.

- - -

After twenty minutes of staring industriously at a point about six inches away from his nose, he decided that Ahiru could not possibly have written that letter.

This conclusion was the result of intuition, careful reasoning, and blind panic at the thought of any other possibility being true. For one thing, it simply didn't sound like her. Even as the considerably-more-articulate Princess Tutu, she always retained an earnest directness that this letter showed little of. And the hopeless longing, the implication that her life would be meaningless if he didn't return her love… That wasn't Ahiru. She'd faced death, and worse than death, with a smile and an appeal to her enemy's better nature; she'd never be as floridly melodramatic as the letter made her sound. Silly, yes, sometimes. Flustered and unsure of herself, a lot of times. But not melodramatic.

Unless… No, that was silly. But what if she'd asked those friends of hers to help her write it? The letter might not sound like _her_, but if the half-heard inanities he remembered from class were any indication, then it did sound quite a bit like _them_.

Could they have written it on her behalf? But that made no sense. Why send a confession letter to someone that she wasn't in love with?

Unless… Had she done or said something that made them get the wrong idea? _Something about waking up in your bed?_ said a smug little voice in the back of his head that sounded vaguely like Rue. _Or being seen naked by you? Twice? How about the time you dove over a cliff to catch her without a second thought? Or the time –_

_Shut up!_ he snarled at it. He'd put up with Uzura's drumming and chanting, and it seemed that his dignity being compromised on a regular basis was a natural consequence of spending time with Ahiru, but he'd be damned before he allowed his own mind to bully him. Anyway, it was possible that she'd mentioned those… instances to her friends, but he doubted it. Every time they'd been in a situation like that, they'd been dealing with something connected to her being Princess Tutu, and she wouldn't just blow her cover over something silly.

So either the letter had been written by another person altogether, Ahiru's friends were trying to stir up trouble – possible; he didn't know much about them beyond the fact that they were giggly, and that Ahiru liked them – or Ahiru had mentioned something unconnected to her being Princess Tutu that had given her friends the wrong idea.

If it _was_ the last one, then what on earth had she said? He couldn't very well ask her. "_Hey. What did you say to your friends that made them think you were in love with me?"_ Yeah, that'd go over well. Besides, now that he thought of it, did it even matter? No matter who had written the letter or what had caused it to be written, they both knew where they stood. She wasn't in love with him, and he… well, it didn't really matter. The point was, it wasn't as if some stupid fake love letter could change that.

Unless, of course, the letter wasn't fake.

Unless…

_No. She's not… she doesn't… she loves Mytho!_

The letter had become crumpled at some point; absently, he smoothed it out. He was being ridiculous, anyway. The next time he saw her, he'd ask her about it, and if she didn't write it, or ask someone else to write it for her… fine. If not…

He was absolutely not going to think about "if not."

The bell was tolling; time to go home. He smoothed down the letter again, tucked it into his pocket, and headed home.


	3. Theme 10: 10

Disclaimer: Own Princess Tutu? Who, me?

- - - - - -

**Theme 10: #10**

_Ten things Ahiru knows about Fakir:_

1. He wears guilt like most people would wear an extra coat: An extra insulating layer to keep unpleasant things out. Most people wouldn't find the belief that everything is ultimately their fault to be comforting, but Fakir isn't most people. She used to find this trait incredibly frustrating, but soon discovered that an easy way to bring him out of it is to annoy him until he's so busy shouting at her that he forgets to wallow.

2. Whenever he's focusing on something, his entire body tenses up and he glares furiously at whatever happens to be in front of him. He once made one of the assistant librarians at the Kinkan Academy library cry when she interrupted him mid-ponder.

3. He'd rather die than admit it, but he actually likes Aotoa.

4. One person he will never like, however, is Rue. She knows this because Rue was always just a little bit too much like him in her desire to see things remain forever unchanging, and if there's one thing Fakir hates, it's seeing his own faults writ large.

5. Actually, Fakir hates a lot of things. She's still a bit surprised that he ended up liking _her._

6. Also on the list of Things Fakir Doesn't Hate: Mytho. Fishing. Reading. Dancing. Charon and Rachel. Actually winning for once.

7. She wishes that the list were longer, but at least it's longer than she originally thought it was, which is to say that it's longer than if there was nothing on it.

8. When he's writing he sometimes forgets to eat, but she's found that if she puts a bowl or plate of something that doesn't require silverware on his desk, he'll snack between paragraphs.

9. Whenever inspiration strikes particularly hard, he can sometimes end up writing until he passes out at his desk. When this happens, she usually waits until he gets that little hitch in his shoulder that means his hand is cramping, sneaks in, and kisses him, which is usually enough to bring him back to the real world.

10. The first time this happened, she made a reference to Sleeping Beauty, which earned her his best I Am Not Amused glare. Fortunately, she's immune by now.

_Ten things Fakir knows about Ahiru:_

1. She's still a terrible liar, but she's grown sneakier with age.

2. She's not a very good cook, but it's worth letting her do it just to see her glaring at the meals she makes as if daring them to be anything but delicious.

3. She says that she doesn't miss being a duck, but sometimes he catches her staring wistfully at the lake.

4. No matter what species she ended up as, birds absolutely adore her. He's grown used to having a small flock invading their bedroom every morning.

5. This is probably why she insisted that their bedroom have more windows than any other room in the house.

6. The room with the second most windows is his study. That was his suggestion rather than hers, but he knows that she's grateful for it; it doesn't take a genius to interpret her worried glances whenever he needs to squint in order to see something.

7. It's probably at least partially for this reason that he feels obscurely triumphant about the fact that he does not yet need glasses.

8. He has no idea how she does it, but somehow even rooms of the house that she's not physically in are full of her. Sometimes he catches himself looking around for her long after she's left the room.

9. She's constantly moving, even when she sleeps. Some nights, when he's been working late, he comes in to find her gradually migrating from one side of the bed to the other.

10. Miraculously, she has only fallen off once.


	4. Theme 4: Our distance and that person

Well, since I've already written a fic about how Fakir's feelings about Ahiru changed, I figured that turnabout was fair play.

Disclaimer: Don't mind me. I'm just here for the crack.

- - - -

**Theme #4: Our Distance and That Person**

She met him, and knew that he was the worst person in the world. He scowled at her, called her an eyesore, pushed her around. Worse: He was mean to Mytho. There was no way, _ever_, that someone like this could possibly be a good person.

She saw him crying and thought, _If_ _he was a monster, he wouldn't be hurting now._ And she remembered: Monsters weren't kind when they thought that no one was around to laugh at them.

She tried to talk to him, and her words went everywhere but where she wanted them to go. And he smiled up at her and told her that he understood.

She was so mad at him, and she wanted to pound on the door until he started making sense again. She found out why he was being so weird, and felt completely awful. And they forgave each other, because caring about someone didn't mean you had to like them all the time.

She called out, and he heard her, even though he shouldn't have been able to hear anything but the oak tree. He wrote a story, and it freed her, even though Drosselmeyer's story was the only one she should have been affected by. And maybe it was the other's voice they heard, though it might have been simpler than that: Neither one of them was the kind of person who left.

She danced with him, and wondered when _Fakir_ had come to mean _safe_. She'd go back to being a duck, and never get to do the things she still wanted to do – dance with everyone else, talk to people instead of having to quack at them, get her first kiss, tell someone she loved them – but somehow it didn't matter, because no matter what happened he'd always be with her. She danced with him, and knew she was home.


	5. Theme 21: Violence

Disclaimer: It's all Ikuko Itoh's.

- - -

**Theme #21: Violence**

His breath is still coming hard and fast, but he's slowed to something short of a run. He can still feel the staccato beat of her pulse against his hands, still feel the way her arms tensed as he leaned in close enough to kiss her or to choke her to death. She is nothing, nothing at all - but she shouted at him as if she had any right to even know that the prince exists, and that was enough to make him want to shake her until every thought of interfering fell out of her head.

_"No need of a heart? What are you saying! There's no way he doesn't need one!"_

What does she know? _She's_ not the one who will have to watch as Mytho rediscovers pain, fear, hatred; _she's_ not the one who will have to fight the raven if enough heart shards are returned. No, all she sees is a handsome prince who needs to get his heart back, and consequences be damned.

Rue, with her lofty smirks and grasping hands. Princess Tutu, returning heart shards as if anyone wanted her to. And this girl, who knows nothing and thinks she knows everything. They're all the same, and never mind the differences; they all want to turn Mytho into something beyond his control. And none of them, _none_ of them, seem to care about the raven lurking behind the next page.

Never. He won't let them.


	6. Theme 26: If only I could make you mine

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu belongs to Ikuko Itoh. What, you thought that _I_ came up with a series this brilliant?

- - -

**Theme #26: If Only I Could Make You Mine**

After they put her in the ground, he went home and smashed every inkwell in the house.

He started with the most recent, which was sitting on his desk. There was a half-finished story sitting next to it; he ripped it in half, almost absently, and let the pieces drop on the ink that was now puddled on the floor. _I'll have to clean that up,_ he thought, and flung the dry inkwell he'd used to keep spare quills in against the wall.

The one in the kitchen was the next to go. She'd kept flowers in it, daisies and violets and dog's roses; he took them out and laid them carefully on the table before throwing their container to the ground.

Next came the one in their (his, now, only his) bedroom, which he'd used if he needed to scribble down ideas before going to bed. It was still on the bed, on top of the board he'd used as a makeshift desk; he took the board off and laid it on the floor before the inkwell it had carried shattered against the wall.

He'd been accumulating quills as he went, not quite wanting to destroy them; they were, after all, duck feathers. He carried them until he reached what she'd called the I-don't-know-what-to-do-with-this closet, where he laid them down between an eyeless stuffed bear and a stack of doodled-on parchment.

And saw, two gaudy figurines and a deck of playing cards down from the parchment, one last inkwell.

Truthfully, he'd almost forgotten that he'd even kept the damned thing. But he recognized it instantly; it was, after all, the only inkwell that he'd ever bothered to keep as a memento. The ink and quill were long since gone, but the well remained, a souvenir of the time when his writing had fixed anything.

Really, it was a minor miracle that it had survived intact. He'd been so surprised to be shaken awake by a naked-and-confused-looking-but-human Ahiru - after he'd passed out, drunk on both wine and his own gloomy certainty that he'd never be able to turn her back into a human being, over the maudlin and incoherent ramble that had somehow done the trick - that his arm had spasmed out and the inkwell had skidded across the desk and knocked against the wall. It had cracked but not broken; still, it was no longer suitable for use as an inkwell, and, not quite able to bring himself to throw it out, he'd held on to it until it had somehow managed to make its way into the closet.

He stood, holding that last dry inkwell, with the bric-a-brac of fifteen years haphazardly arranged all around him. Fifteen years, it had been, not even that much longer than if he had let her stay a duck. He'd made her human again, and been glad that he had expanded her lifespan; he hadn't known, then, that fifteen years later he would find himself unable to write a story that could stave off a perfectly unfairytale-like illness.

He'd never believed in railing against the unfairness of it all; one could only take things as they came, and then act. And so he kissed the inkwell on the lid, tightened his grasp, and threw it to the ground.


	7. Theme 1: Look over there

Disclaimer: Fakir, Ahiru, et al. belong to Ikuko Itoh.

- - -

**Theme #1: Look Over There**

"Hey, Fakir."

"Hm?"

"Look at that cloud."

"What? Why?"

"C'mon, just look!"

"All right. What about it?"

"Doesn't it look like a flower?"

"…"

"See, that's the flower part, and there's a leaf sticking out."

"It looks like a cloud. What's your point?"

"Oh, never mind."

"Hmph."

Slight pause.

"Hey, Fakir?"

"Hm?"

"That cloud looks like a rabbit, doesn't it?"

"What – "

"And that one – doesn't it look like a hat?"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"The clouds! Look, there's the rabbit's ears, and – "

"And why are you bringing that up, exactly?"

"Oh. Um. Well. Um. Well you seemed so sad and then I remembered the time you pointed out to Mytho that cloud that looked like a flying cow except it was really Princess Tutu only not really and so I thought that well I don't know what I thought but – "

"You were trying to cheer me up?"

"Well… yeah."

"I'm fine."

"But – "

"Don't worry about me, moron."

"You don't have to call me a moron when I'm trying to be nice to you!"

Slightly longer pause.

"…Sorry."

"It's okay. Hey, look at that one! It looks just like a tree!"

"I suppose. How is cloud-watching supposed to cheer someone up, anyhow?"

"Because it's fun! Don't you always feel better after doing something that you like?"

"Not necessarily."

"Eh?"

"I don't usually have time for games."

"I guess. But you do now, don't you?"

"That's… not the point."

"Huh? What is the point?"

"It's… Anyway, you still didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Why the clouds?"

"But I did answer that! You asked why and I said because it's fun and you made the Don't Be Such A Moron, Moron face even though some things work no matter what like the time I kissed you goodnight and you slept much better after that so I thought, well, maybe doing something fun would work the same way and um. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"…"

"Fakir?"

"…You kissed me."

"Oh. Um. Did I say that out loud?"

"…Yes."

"It – It wasn't like that! It was right after Mytho was… Mytho was… Anyway, it was right after that and I needed to tuck you in and I kissed you on the cheek because I thought maybe you'd need it and – and – "

"Moron. I've told you that you don't need to worry about things like that."

"But I wanted you to feel better! Why are you being so mean about it?"

Very long pause.

"Hey."

"I'm not talking to you."

"That cloud over there… It really does look like a flower."


	8. Theme 8: Our Own World

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu? Totally not mine.

- - -

**Theme #8: Our Own World**

_Even without the pendant, she remains a girl. It was not the prince's will that made her human, but her own, and so she retains human form without it. Pursuing her dream to become a ballerina, she leaves town with a traveling dance troupe upon graduating from the Academy, and he never sees her again._

_The prince's heart is never corrupted. She restores it, and they live happily ever after. The raven princess never learns the truth, and dies with the raven, while the would-be knight lives and dies in obscurity, as was meant to be._

_After returning the last heart shard to Mytho, she is ignominiously trampled by the herd of transformed ravens. The monster raven triumphs, and everyone dies._

_Though she's initially a duck, he manages to write a story that transforms her back into a girl. She's happy about it for the most part, but never entirely forgives him for robbing her of her true form._

_Though she's initially a duck, he manages to write a story that transforms her back into a girl. She grows older, falls in love with one of the other village boys, and gets married. Somehow, he doesn't make it to the wedding._

_Though she's initially a duck, he manages to write a story that transforms her back into a girl. They live happily ever after until she dies of a bad case of pneumonia._

_Though she's initially a duck, he manages to write a story that transforms her back into a girl. They live happily ever after until he chokes on a fishbone and dies. As the light fades from his eyes, he can hear the faint sound of Drosselmeyer snickering._

_She stays a duck, and he never figures out how to turn her back. She dies after about ten years, and he buries her near the lake._

_She never becomes anything other than a duck, and the prince's heart is never restored. He lives as he always has, hating his life and hoping that it never changes._

_She –_

"Fakir?"

"Hn?"

And she's there, realer than any words on the page, ducking behind him and pecking him on the cheek. "Dinner's ready. Ooh, is that a new story?"

"Not really. I was just… thinking." And he gets up, leaving the desk behind.


	9. Theme 3: Jolt!

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu isn't mine.

- - -

**Theme #3: Jolt!**

There are feathers _everywhere_.

She's lying stunned in the middle of the bed, feeling _(with hands? Why do I have hands?)_ the downy itch of feathers on a body that's suddenly too long, too wide, too…

Human. She's human. Did Fakir do that? Time's been so fuzzy ever since she was turned back into a duck, she's not sure if she just imagined him saying that he would. _Did_ she imagine it? Maybe this is all a dream and she's still asleep and dreaming that she's human except why would she dream about being all confused and –

_Maybe I should sit up._

She wobbles upright. It's not that she's forgotten how to move in this body, not really, but… the ground is so far _away_ now. She'd almost forgotten – _had_ forgotten – how it felt to see things from above, what it felt like when everything was all vertical and jointy. That's how she feels now: Hinged and wobbly. Her feathers are gone, and her skin is on too tight.

But the view from above is kind of nice. She'd missed that.

And now that she's up…

_Fakir!_

He's slumped forward onto his desk, face down in what looks like a rapidly spreading pool of ink. _Can you drown in ink? What no he can't drown!_

Is there – no, no broken glass on the floor. Just a quill that dropped from his hand, and crumpled up pages littering the corners of the room. Nothing hazardous to bare feet. So she's across the floor, quick as a something that doesn't waddle, and shaking him… not awake yet. Why isn't he waking up? "Fakir. Fakir!"

"Unnnhhhh…"

His head's moving. That's good, right? It doesn't mean that he'll suddenly get up and sprout branches like he did that other time, right? Because he's already done that and she doesn't think you can do things like accidentally turn into a tree twice and anyway there isn't enough dirt here for an oak tree to grow in so that's probably not going to happen but what if –

" 'S going – "

But he stops mid-sentence as his head tilts toward her and his eyes open – wider, as he realizes what's happened.

"_Ahiru."_

It's barely more than a breath, an exhalation of wonder. He's staring at her with an expression she's never seen him wear before – somewhere between shock and hope and disbelief.

"You – " he begins, and stops.

"Um." She almost feels like she should wave. Except that's silly, right? 'Cause she's standing right in front of him, and…

…not wearing any clothes.

"Um I mean just a second!" Back across the floor and wrapped in a blanket, it takes her a few minutes to realize that she no longer feels like she's too far off the ground.

"How – how long have you been like this?" His voice sounds funny, like there's something caught in his throat.

"I don't know. A few minutes?" Now that he's awake and she's not panicking about the fact that he's not awake, she can take a better look at him. He's still wearing that stunned expression; there's ink on his face, but he doesn't seem to care.

"I see." Less strangled now. "Are you – I mean – "

"I'm okay." And surprisingly, she is. This body will never fit her all the way, but she's remembering how to slow down. "Did you write a story for me?"

"It wasn't – " He grimaces. "It wasn't a story, exactly."

"Eh? What was it?"

"It was – never mind. Let me get you some clothes." Which is Fakir for, "Please don't ask, because it'll make me turn bright red and hide in a corner," so she doesn't. Instead she watches as he rummages through his clothing chest and pulls out a shirt. "Here. This should be long enough."

The shirt actually covers less than the blanket did, but she supposes that that's not really the point. "Thanks."

"It's not a problem." Now that the shock has worn off, his face is closing down again. She's always hated it when he does this, furrowing his brows and pulling his mouth downward as if smiling would make the raven come back. "I'll see if I can find you a dress tomorrow."

"Fakir?" she asks with some trepidation, because she doesn't want to make him look like he wants to hide when she's only been able to talk for five minutes. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing." _That I ever want to talk about,_ his face says.

"Well, it'd have to be something to make you notice that it's nothing, right?" Which makes him look at her as if he's never seen anything quite so odd, but at least he's not frowning inward anymore.

"It'd have to be… never mind. It's not important."

"_Fakiiiiir."_

"It's nothing. I…"

"You…?" He's speaking in sentence fragments, and that's never ever good. "Are you mad about turning me back?"

"What? No!"

"Then what?"

Silence.

"Fakir?"

"It wasn't a story." He says it so quietly she's not sure at first if she even heard it at all. "I was writing about how I felt. About not being able to turn you back. About – you."

"But it worked, right? So why – "

"It didn't!" His eyes shudder closed. "I wasn't trying to write a story. I wasn't trying to do anything at all."

"But – "

"I lost control." As if he's admitting the gravest sin he's ever committed. "The story did this. Not me."

"But it was _your_ story. Why – "

"_I didn't intend for this to happen._ Don't you understand?"

He's not even talking to her anymore. And she _does_ understand, just not what he meant her to. Fakir might know more than her about a lot of things, but there's one thing she knows that he never did manage to learn: That not every unintended thing will make ravens kill your family.

So she's across the floor for the third time, and wrapping her arms around him. He tenses, but doesn't try to move away. After a moment she feels him relax, and put his arms around her. "It's okay, Fakir. Nothing bad happened."

"It could have."

"It _didn't_. You don't have to be sad about things that didn't happen."

He _hmphs_ into her hair. "You're awfully sure of yourself."

"Because I'm _right_. Nothing bad happened, did it?"

His chest starts to shake a little; it takes her a minute to realize that he's laughing. "And how would you know that when you haven't even left the room, moron?"

"I just do," she grumbles into his chest. Maybe she should feel embarrassed about standing like this, pressed up against him and wearing nothing but a oversized shirt, but for now all she can feel is relief that he's no longer trying to feel guilty about made-up things. "You wrote down your feelings, right? So they wouldn't do anything you didn't want them to."

"You'd be surprised."

She looks up at him. He's not quite smiling, but there's something in his face that seems like he just might think about it. "Eh?"

"Never mind." Then, more quietly, "Thank you."

They stand like that for awhile, just holding each other. In all the months of riding on his shoulder or trotting along beside him, she'd forgotten what it was like to –

Not see eye-to-eye. She's not tall enough for that. But even though he's looking over the top of her head, and she's looking past the hitch in his shoulder, he can look down and she can look up and they can meet in the middle without her having to get a crick in her neck.

He exhales – how long was he holding that breath? – and presses a kiss onto the top of her head. "I'm glad that you're back."

_I've always been here,_ she almost says, but doesn't. She knows what he means. "Yeah. Me too."


	10. Theme 29: The Sound of Waves

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu belongs to Ikuko Itoh.

- - -

**Theme #29: The Sound of Waves**

As the days go by, she begins to lose her words. Not all at once, and she keeps the important ones like "moron" and "duck" and "story" long after the others have slid away. But time passes, sunset to sunrise to sunset-rise-set-rise, and all the words she hear begin to blur into sound, meaningless as the rustle of the wind along the shore or the slap of wavelets as they kiss the dock.

But meaningless or not, these are the sounds he brings with him every day. She wishes she could remember what they meant; they sound important, like things he wants her to know. She wishes she could respond with something other than a quack, do something that will make him feel like he's not just talking to himself. She wishes she could let him know that she understands the meaning that lurks under all that noise, and say the same thing back in a way that he'll understand: _I'm here. I care about you._

It's not so bad most of the time. He sits on the dock, punctuating the _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of his quill with the occasional "Hmm" or "Huh" while she bobs in the water beside him. The water is calm and the sun is shining; some things need no translation. Or riding on his shoulder through town. Drowsing on the table late at night, lulled to sleep by the rustle of parchment. These are the times when nothing has been lost, and she doesn't have to wish. She only has to _be_.

But then there are the times when he forgets that she's no longer able to respond in words, and he makes indecipherable sounds and pauses – not expectantly. Absently, as if the idea of her not saying anything back is too absurd to even contemplate. She can't see his face at these times, but she can imagine it: Mouth turned down, eyes showing nothing, the face of someone who's used to being disappointed. It's the face he wore when she first met him, back when his mouth was hunched into an ungenerous line and she looked at him and saw nothing but meanness.

Now she looks at him and sees all their once-upon-a-times. All the time they spent misunderstanding each other; all the words used to hurt or confuse or dance around the point like a clumsy pas de deux, but never ever to say what needed to be said. And all the things that were never said; not until the very end, when everything went wrong and they were finally jolted into clarity.

It's too late for words now. Too late for anything but the things that never needed words in the first place - the language they spoke when she was still astonished to discover that he could be anything but unkind. They're relearning it now, piece by piece, this business of a wordless together.


	11. Theme 17: kHz

This takes place during Fakir's acid trip… er, _convo with the oak tree_ in Episode 21.

Disclaimer: Everyone you recognize belongs to Ikuko Itoh.

- - -

**Theme #17: kHz**

There are things that he should be caring about right now. Things

_Fakir! Fakir!_

that he _did_ care about, once upon a time. Things that made him unhappy, that made him feel helpless with rage. Things that brought him nothing but misery, but which he cared for nonetheless.

Now he wonders why. It's so

_Fakir!_

peaceful here at the center of everything, peaceful and perfectly calm. Even before he met the prince, even before his parents died, he never knew what it meant to be still; he was always striving, racing ahead, wanting more. Here, he has no need to move. No need to struggle. He

_Fakir, listen to me!_

doesn't need to suffer anymore, forever wanting something he can't achieve. He can stay here, sufficient, for all eternity; stay here and watch over everyone. Isn't

_Don't get sucked in by the oak tree!_

Isn't

_Fakir!_

Isn't that

_Fakir!_

Isn't that

_Fakir, come back to me!_

enough?

There's a strange background noise beating against his thoughts. It's not a pleasant sound, exactly; it's raspy, frantic, urgent, reminding him of the world he left behind. But somehow, it's not something he wants to get rid of; there's another voice inside him, something deeper than that urgent outside voice, something even deeper than the oak tree, saying _this, this, you must remember this_.

It's not peace that the sound is calling him to, not the deep calm

_Fakir! Fakir!_

that the oak tree promises. There's pain where the voice is, pain and loss and failure. Failures, yes: He wrote stories only to watch them kill the people he loved, became a knight only to hurt the one he was trying to protect, hurt and hurt and hurt some more rather than admit what his pretenses of protection had become. It doesn't hurt here, where his successes and failures are equally meaningless, but it will once he leaves.

_Fakir! Fakir!_

But there are things other than pain out there, aren't there? All the reasons

_Fakir!_

why he even bothered to fight in the first place. His prince, alive and safe and well. The raven, defeated once and for all. The town, free from danger.

His mother, who kissed him goodnight before he snuck out of bed and wrote the story that killed her.

_Fakir!_

These things are all a part of him now, the dreams and the failures and the voice that's driving him out of his stillness. He can't hide from them; it was wrong to even try.

_Fakir!_

And even if it _was_ the right thing to do, he doesn't deserve be at rest. Not yet. Not while there are people who need him.

He reaches up toward the voice, and climbs.


	12. Theme 27: Overflow

This takes place at some point after Episode 20.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu belongs to Ikuko Itoh. Do not own, yadda yadda.

- - -

**Theme #27: Overflow**

They ambush him as he's leaving the house, each gripping him by an arm, hauling him back inside, and plunking him down in a chair. He could have fought back, but he was too busy being surprised that they'd even go near him (isn't half the school convinced that he's going to murder them?) to even try. Besides, he's beginning to suspect that his terrible fate is not to die but to be manhandled by girls half his size. First Ahiru, and now these two. There's definitely a pattern here.

He's just catching his breath when the pink-haired one jabs a finger at his chest and demands to know what his intentions are toward Ahiru.

Friends of Ahiru's, then; no wonder they looked familiar. But that still doesn't explain what the hell Pink Hair is talking about. "My what?" he says blankly.

"Your intentions!" the blonde chirps. "How you'll love her and leave her and I'll comfort her when she's heartbroken!"

Pink Hair looks like she's just swallowed glass. "You'd _better_ not!" she squawks.

"I – " If he agrees to what they're saying, will they leave? No, better not – they'll take it as a sign that he thinks about Ahiru that way, and then he'll never get rid of them. He can't throw them out, either; he can handle one, but two at once would be troublesome. And somehow, he doesn't think they'll listen if he simply asks them to leave. He settles on, "It's not like that."

"Ohhhhh?" the blonde (Lucy? Lina?) croons. "Reeeeeally?"

Pink Hair ignores her friend. It's the first sensible thing she's done since the conversation began. "Well, no _wonder_ she's so confused! You haven't told her how you feel yet!"

"Seize the moment!" Blonde Hair chimes in. "And then fail miserably!"

"Just be honest," Pink Hair continues with an authoritative nod. "You don't have to do anything fancy. Though it wouldn't hurt to bring flowers – "

" – And something cute and breakable that she can smash when you break her heart – "

" – And maybe you could try smiling a little, so you don't make her nervous – "

" – But not too much! She's so _cute_ when she's panicking!"

"And you definitely don't want to kiss her until the second date, though holding hands should be fine – "

"Yes, yes! Sweaty palms will show her _exactly_ how nervous you are!"

He settles into a more comfortable position, and starts looking for escape routes.

- - -

Two hours and a disturbingly detailed account of his hypothetical future wedding plans later, they finally leave. Glares and interruptions were both ignored; when he got up and tried to leave, they'd moved to block him with an almost military precision. And since actually hurting them wasn't an option, he'd had no choice but to stay, and learn more about their opinions on Ahiru's love life than he'd _ever wanted to know._

"What are you doing-zura?"

_I've just spent the past two hours being lectured on romance by a thirteen-year-old Greek chorus. How was __**your **__day?_ "Nothing."

Wide eyes gape up at him. "Ohhhh. Is nothing-zura like Ahiru's love-love-zura?"

_Wait. Why is she –_ "Were you listening?"

That earns him a drumbeat and a happy smile. "At the window-zura!" She narrows her eyes at him. "Why are you making that face-zura?"

He's never been so glad that Charon doesn't have a mirror downstairs. "Never mind that. Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

For some reason, this seems to delight her. "Ohhhh." A drumbeat. "You're embarrassed-zura! Is it because of love-love-zura?"

"What _–_ "

"Is love-love-zura embarrassing-zura?"

"Never mind that," he says again. "Listen, I have to – "

"Fakir's love-love-zura is embarrassing-zura!" she exclaims happily. And marches away, chanting. "Love love love love love…"

He watches her go, shaking his head in bemusement. God knows what she's going to be up to now, but with any luck it'll keep her from bothering him for the rest of the afternoon. Unless, of course, she happens to meet Ahiru's friends…

He briefly considers this, then pushes the thought away with a shudder. Two hour lectures are one thing, but some things are just too horrifying to contemplate.


	13. Theme 6: Between Dream and Reality

This takes place after Theme #3.

Disclaimer: Princess Tutu is Ikuko Itoh's.

- - -

**Theme #6: The Space Between Dream and Reality**

Something's resting on top of his chest. His first thought is that he fell asleep reading again; the weight on his chest must be the book that he fell asleep with. But no, that's not right. It's the wrong shape for a book, and far too warm. And books don't breathe, or sigh and murmur, "'M awake, Pique…" against his chest, or curl against his side. In fact, he's fairly sure that books can't talk at all. So what can it…

Oh.

It all comes rushing back: Writing that _(horrible, maudlin, thank God she'll never see it)_ rambling paragraph, putting into words all the things that he'd rather stab himself to death with a quill than say aloud. And then digressing into remembrance of the time when… well, before.

A simple description, that was all. A memorial, even – Ahiru's human form, rest in peace. And he'd made it live again. Without intent, without conscious desire, he'd warped reality to his whim.

He wonders if this is how Drosselmeyer became what he did, letting his words bleed over into reality until the world outside and the people in it were nothing more than toys for the writer's amusement, to be shaped or mangled at whim. _Never,_ he thinks, _I'd __**never**__ do what he_ – and remembers how good it felt, what a relief it was, when the clawed tangle of regret and guilt and – and –

_Idiot. You can't even use the word in your own __**head**_

love finally spilled out of his heart and onto the page. Remembers the surge of stunned joy as he looked up to see her worried, wide-eyed, _human_ face. It was only a few moments before reality and its accompanying guilt set in, but for those few moments…

He's being ridiculous. What's done is done

_unless you feel like writing it to be otherwise_

and whatever his faults, he's no Drosselmeyer. He might

_get someone else killed_

accidentally cause harm, but not out of any malice or desire to see them suffer. And hasn't he learned by now? Doesn't he know the consequences of a misused story better than anyone else? He didn't cause anyone any harm

_this time_

and it's idiotic to feel guilt over something that never happened. Unless, of course, there were other consequences that he doesn't know about yet, and he's brought harm to someone again without even intending it –

He'll deal with it in the morning. Whatever it is – _if_ anything else even happened, he's probably worrying over nothing – he can deal with it in the morning.

He pulls her tighter, and waits for the dawn.

- - -

And dreams:

_Mama put him to bed early that night, even though he'd __**told**__ her that he was big enough to help with the watch. She didn't say anything, only got that funny crinkle in her nose that she always got when she was trying not to laugh, and kissed his forehead and said goodnight. Which wasn't fair at __**all**__; heroes were always young, all the stories said so, and anyway everyone always said that he was big for his age. But she and Daddy didn't understand that, and always pulled him back inside when he tried to go out and fight the ravens._

_But that was okay, because he had a plan. He was going to write a story, and he'd be a hero who wasn't too little for __**anything**__. And then the ravens would go away, and he'd be allowed outside again, and everyone would be so proud of him –_

_And he waited until he heard Mama and Daddy come up the stairs, waited a little longer until he heard the door of their room close, waited even longer after that until he was absolutely positively sure that they wouldn't wake up and tell him he was too little to save everybody, and went downstairs and wrote until he heard cawing outside and ravens, more than he could count, poured in through every window –_

- - -

He wakes with a start, tightening his grip on her side; she protests, sleepily, and he loosens his hold. It's really not a comfortable position for either of them, jammed up against the wall like this. But it was the best compromise that either of them could come up with, unwilling as they'd been to lose hold of each other, and unwilling, even in that strange and uneasy intimacy after she'd woken him up, to either share his bed or let the other one rest on the floor.

She looks older now; he didn't expect that. _(Idiot. It's been a year now. Of course she's older than she was.)_ He's had her human form fixed in his mind, static, for over a year, smiling bravely before she turns and runs to meet her fate. Of all his memories of her, it was the sight of her retreating back that he saw most clearly: The brightness of her dress and that ridiculous tuft of hair bobbing off into the distance, forever.

It was the right thing to do, and not a decision that he'd had the right to change in any case; over the past year, he's refused to let himself regret it. Refused to let himself miss the sound of her voice; the way she always ran, full-tilt, as if there was something terribly exciting up ahead and she didn't want to be late to see it; the expressiveness of her face, emotions racing across it at a dizzying pace; the… He's refused to let himself miss her, because there was nothing to miss. It wasn't as if she was _dead_, after all, or a different person… duck… whatever. She'd still been herself, no matter what species she was. _Even if you turn back into a duck, I'll always stay by your side,_ he'd said, and meant it.

But it's… good… to be holding her like this.

Only a few hours left until the dawn. There's clothing to find, and living arrangements to work out, and God knows how the hell he's going to explain to Charon why there are feathers all over his bed and a girl in his room wearing nothing but one of his shirts… They'll work it out. Somehow. Only a few hours left until the dawn, when reality will intrude and there will be Things To Do and he'll finally learn the price for letting go (if only for a minute) of the part of his mind that listens, always, for the sound of wings.


End file.
